


Thank You For The Music

by jedusaur



Series: Modern-Day Slave 'Verse [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Master/Slave, Podfic Available, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Panic is going to be a big fucking deal. If Brendon is your lead singer, he's going to be a big fucking deal. Do you really want to own a celebrity?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You For The Music

**Author's Note:**

> A podfic of this fic by theletterelle can be downloaded [here](http://dl.dropbox.com/u/5217130/podfic/jedusaur/tyftm.mp3) (direct download).

Obviously, Pete knows they're having trouble with the album. It's hard to keep it a secret when nearly every recording session ends in a screaming fight, and Spencer is clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It's not surprising that Pete would send him something to try to help him deal with the stress. It's just that Spencer would have expected a gift card for a massage, maybe, or a functional coffee machine for the studio. A coffee machine, _that_ might make a difference.

What he gets is a heart attack.

"I almost pissed my fucking pants, you dickwad," Spencer says into his phone. "You didn't think maybe if the point was to help me relax, you should've warned me about the naked guy you left in my living room?"

Pete laughs. "You like him?"

"Haven't had a chance to try him out yet." Spencer flops down onto the couch. "I don't know, though, dude. I appreciate the gesture and all, but it's an extra responsibility to worry about, you know?"

"What responsibility?" says Pete. "I dealt with the registration paperwork for you, and I left a bag of nutrition cubes in the kitchen. I'm pretty sure he's potty-trained. What is there to worry about?"

Spencer glances over at the boy, still kneeling silently in the corner. He hasn't moved at all since Spencer walked in. "I guess. Did he come with a name?"

"Brendon. You can give him a new one if you want, though. Go give him a whirl, huh? I took him for a test drive before I paid for him--trust me, he's good."

"Okay. Hey, thanks," Spencer says, and ends the call. He drops the phone on the coffee table and takes a long look at his present. The boy is entirely nude except for a sticker plastered over his left nipple that says "TO SPENCER, LOVE PETE" in Sharpied block letters.

Well, he's certainly attractive enough.

Spencer beckons, and the boy immediately crawls over to kneel in front of him. Spencer peels the sticker off his nipple, pulling tender skin to a sharp point and leaving a red mark behind. The boy doesn't flinch.

"Brendon, huh?" Spencer folds the sticker in half and tosses it aside. The boy nods, gaze still fixed on the floor. He won't bother training him to respond to something else. Ryan's the one who likes to spend hours thinking up perfect names for his guitars and his pets and his laptop. Spencer doesn't really care, as long as they perform their intended functions.

"Can you do housework at all?" he asks. "Know how to balance a checkbook? Fix a car?"

Brendon shakes his head, then bows it as if expecting punishment.

"Great." Spencer sighs. Far be it from Pete to buy him a slave that might be actually useful. "I don't suppose you can play the guitar. That really would solve my problems."

Brendon looks up warily. He doesn't make eye contact, but he's obviously confused. Spencer doesn't explain, just unzips his pants. If sex is all the kid can do, the sex had better be fucking awesome.

It is. Brendon doesn't seem to have a gag reflex or need oxygen. Spencer runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair and uses it to yank his head down further, and Brendon takes it without a sound, deep-throating like a professional sword swallower. When Spencer comes down his throat, he swallows neatly, pulls off, and resumes kneeling by the couch with his eyes on the floor. He's not even panting.

So maybe Pete isn't completely nuts.

***

"Wait, why do _you_ get a sex slave?" Ryan whines. "Why don't _I_ get a sex slave?"

Spencer shrugs. "Because pent-up frustration is more likely to make me go on a murderous equipment-destroying rampage than play turtle in a hoodie?"

Ryan concedes the point with a shrug. "He must've been expensive, though."

"Right," Spencer says dryly. "Because, you know, Pete's barely making his rent."

"Still." Ryan pouts. "You should share."

"No. I'm not letting you splurt STDs all over my brand-new toy. Come on, we need to finish this track." Spencer raps a marching beat on the snare. It's pretty nice, getting laid just before coming in to the studio. He's never lived with anyone he's dated, so he's never had regular morning sex before. It's doing wonders for his mood.

The good feeling doesn't last. Ryan is insisting on recording the guitar and vocals simultaneously, which is utterly ridiculous, but he won't listen when Spencer and Brent tell him this. It doesn't feel like he's really accompanying himself otherwise, apparently, and Spencer already knew he had an ego problem, but seriously.

"Just imagine you're not accompanying yourself," he finally snaps. "Pretend we've found another guitarist, like you keep promising we will. Can you do that for me, or do you want to try playing bass with your toes and shoving a drumstick up your ass so you don't need the rest of us at all?"

The afternoon goes downhill from there.

Spencer calls his landline from the car on the way home. Brendon won't pick up, but Spencer's got his answering machine set to screen calls, so he'll hear if he's near the kitchen. "You probably want to start lubing up now," Spencer says after the tone, "otherwise this is gonna hurt." He tosses his phone on the passenger seat and spends the rest of the drive trying not to grind his teeth.

Brendon is waiting when he walks in, tilted forward over the back of the couch, legs spread. It's not a spot Spencer would have thought to use, but when he shoves down his pants and slams in, it's perfect. The height is just right, and he can bend Brendon double and push his face into the cushions while he fucks him.

He wraps a hand around Brendon's jaw, knuckles pressing against the fabric of the couch cushions, and slips his fingers into his mouth. Brendon sucks them in, running his tongue down to the webbing between Spencer's fingers. Spencer squeezes his cheek, thrusting his cock deep inside. Brendon's body is trapped tightly between him and the couch, but he still manages to perform some kind of shimmy with his hips that sends Spencer gasping over the edge in minutes.

"Oof," Spencer grunts, shoving Brendon's torso out of the way and toppling forward onto the couch. Brendon hurries around to kneel by the coffee table. Spencer closes his eyes. He can feel a Ross-induced migraine coming on, and he's pretty sure he's out of painkillers. He gets out his wallet and hands Brendon a ten-dollar bill.

"Head to the CVS on the corner and get me some acetaminophen," he says. "Put on some clothes first. Do you have any clothes? Whatever, you can wear mine. Actually..." He fishes his keys out of his other pocket. "I think I left my cell phone on the seat of my car. Get that too while you're out."

Brendon stares at him.

"What?" Spencer snaps. He wants to stave off this headache before it has a chance to get going.

"Aren't you afraid I'll run away?" Brendon whispers, like he's not sure he's allowed to talk. He's eyeing the car keys.

Spencer snorts. "Yeah, no, I'm assuming you're not a complete idiot." He rolls his head around to look at Brendon. "You're not, are you? Don't try to run away. It would be a lot of paperwork and hassle for me, and it would be seriously fucking unpleasant for you."

"I know," murmurs Brendon, then, as he's standing up, "Thank you for assuming I'm not an idiot."

***

Spencer doesn't go to the studio the next day. He's not strictly needed until Ryan works out his shit, which is probably more likely to happen without Spencer hovering around making stinkeyes at him. Besides, he hasn't really taken full advantage of his new stress ball.

He wakes up with a crick in his neck and groans. "Brendon."

Brendon, lying curled up on the floor, raises his head from his arm.

"Neck rub," Spencer commands. He rolls onto his stomach, burrowing his cheek into his pillow.

Brendon hops up onto the bed, grabbing a bottle of hand lotion from the nightstand. "It's better for your back without the pillow," he says tentatively. Spencer lifts his head and lets him take it away. It doesn't feel any better, but he's not a massage expert. Brendon probably learned these things in sex slave training. Or whatever, he doesn't know how it works.

Brendon straddles the backs of Spencer's thighs and squirts a dollop of lotion into his hand. They're both naked, skin sliding together when Brendon moves forward to rub Spencer's shoulders. Once he relaxes a little, Spencer understands what he meant about the pillow. His spine feels straighter, more comfortable this way.

"You're good at this," Spencer murmurs. His neck doesn't hurt anymore, and Brendon's hands are warm and sure as they squeeze his tendons.

"It's what I do," Brendon answers. His hands move away from Spencer's neck, rubbing along his arms, across his back, down his legs and then back up to his ass. He circles Spencer's asshole for a moment, giving him a chance to object, before adding more lotion and delving in.

Spencer's been fingered before, but always as a precursor to sex, never for its own sake. It feels less like fingering than just a continuation of the massage, easing his tension from the inside. Brendon doesn't hurry things or stretch him uncomfortably, just works his muscles soothingly until it doesn't feel like an intrusion at all.

Spencer is more relaxed than aroused until Brendon starts massaging his prostate. That gets him hard fast. Then Brendon bends down to lick around his fingers, and Spencer grabs his pillow back to muffle his moans. His skin is sensitive from all the touching, and Brendon's tongue feels incredible, circling his hole and then dipping in along with his fingers as he teases Spencer's prostate with his fingertips. His other hand wraps around Spencer's balls and pulls gently, gently, until Spencer comes all over his sheets.

They spend the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in bed. Brendon is able to get Spencer off using a staggering variety of skills and body parts (including, bafflingly, his elbow). Spencer is perfectly content to just lie back and watch the magic unfold.

Around three o'clock, he finally can't take any more and gets up to shower. He's still toweling off when the doorbell rings. A glance through the peephole reveals his visitor to be Ryan.

"Just a minute," Spencer calls, and takes his time getting dressed, because he feels that Ryan deserves to hang out on the doorstep for a while after all the grief he's caused lately.

Ryan's grinning when he opens the door. "If you're busy..." he starts.

"I just got out of the shower, asshole," says Spencer, standing aside to let him in. He doesn't mention what he's been doing all day.

Ryan looks around. "So where is he?"

Of course he's here to eye up the fresh meat. "Brendon!" Spencer calls.

Brendon comes out from the bedroom and kneels, still naked. He looks very, very ravished. Spencer resigns himself to the mocking, but Ryan doesn't appear to notice. "Hey there," he says, smiling. Brendon keeps his eyes on the floor, but he almost looks like he's smiling too, which is new.

"So, um," Ryan says, sticking his hands in his pockets, "I think we should maybe just not talk about the album. Can we play a video game or something?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. He'd rather not piss off the rest of his apartment building with screaming matches, especially after the hours he just spent moaning like a bad porno. It wouldn't be neighborly.

They settle on Rock Band, which isn't actually very conducive to distracting them from thinking about recording. Spencer bites back at least three sarcastic comments before they even start, including an offer to let Ryan try to play the guitar and singing parts simultaneously. It's hard to resist. He's pretty sure the attempt would do an effective job of hammering in the point he was trying to make back in the studio.

"This is kind of lame with just two people," says Ryan after two songs with him on vocals and Spencer on guitar. He looks at Brendon, who's still kneeling in the corner. "Can he play?"

"I dunno," says Spencer. "I'm pretty sure he never has, but it's not really hard. Brendon, come over here."

He starts setting up a confused but eager Brendon with the guitar, but Ryan grabs it instead. "Here," he says, handing over the mic. "I should rest my voice. You can be our lead singer."

It's a little funny how thrilled Brendon looks as he takes it. Spencer gets the drum set plugged in for himself to play while Ryan flicks through the menu of songs, eventually settling on "Sweetness" by Jimmy Eat World.

Brendon belts out the opening line, and Spencer drops one of his drumsticks.

The guitar and drum parts fail out because he and Ryan are staring at Brendon instead of playing. The FAILED screen comes up, and Brendon looks worried. "I'm sorry," he says. "I thought I was--"

"Keep singing," Spencer says.

Brendon looks completely bewildered, but he starts up where he left off, finishing the song entirely from memory. He's still holding the plastic microphone to his chin uncertainly.

"Try this," says Ryan, and sings the chorus of the one song they have fully completed. Brendon repeats it perfectly, nailing the high note in "harlequin."

Spencer and Ryan look at each other. "I guess you're our guitarist," says Spencer.

"I guess so," says Ryan.

"What?" Brendon says meekly.

"We're in a band," Spencer explains. "You're our new lead singer."

"Wait, a band?" Brendon looks like he's about to cry. "You're going to let me sing in a real band?"

"Let you?" says Spencer. "You don't have a fucking choice."

***

Pete is skeptical.

"I'll be honest with you, Spencer," he says. "I want you guys to be famous, and I'm in a position to make that happen. Panic is going to be a big fucking deal. If Brendon is your lead singer, _he's_ going to be a big fucking deal. Do you really want to own a celebrity?"

"If that's what it takes to make this band work," says Spencer.

Pete is silent for a long time. Then he says, "Okay. Try recording with him and see how it goes. Send me whatever you have by the end of the day."

What they have at the end of the day is two whole songs, rough but complete. Spencer is astounded at Brendon's ability to put up with Ryan. No matter how demanding he gets or how many times he makes them rerecord three words because he thinks they need a brighter shape--whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean--Brendon never stops grinning like a lunatic. It's contagious, and despite Ryan's nitpicking, they're all miraculously still in a good mood when they finish the second song and decide to call it a day.

Brent, relief practically dripping from his entire body, suggests that they all go out for drinks after they e-mail the tracks to Pete. Brendon waits hopefully for Spencer's answer, and it's the look in his eyes that makes Spencer decide to go. Brendon deserves it for singlehandedly pulling the band together like that.

Pete calls while they're on their second round of shots. He asks to talk to Brendon, who listens very seriously for a long time, then says, "Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

"What was that about?" Spencer asks when he gets his phone back.

"Just making his position clear," says Pete. "I listened to the tracks. You're right about his voice, it's a good fit for you guys." He pauses. "I hope you're ready for this, dude."

"I am," Spencer says, hoping he isn't lying.

They all get completely shitfaced, including Brendon, who's been clinging to Spencer like a barnacle for forty-five minutes by the time they leave. Spencer's not sure if the alcohol is making him cuddly, or if he usually wants to be touched and holds back. He wonders whether Brendon has ever been drunk before.

Brendon doesn't let go on the way home. He probably would if he thought the contact wasn't welcome, but Spencer doesn't discourage him. It's kind of nice, feeling like Brendon wants to touch him instead of doing it because he's told. Spencer likes it.

It hasn't even crossed his mind to kiss Brendon before now, but when they get back to his apartment and Brendon strips and kneels, gazing up at Spencer like he's some kind of benevolent deity, he suddenly desperately wants to. He leans down and takes Brendon's face in his palms, looking him directly in the eyes before touching their lips carefully together. Brendon is an incredible kisser, submissive but responsive. Spencer loses himself in it until his back starts aching from bending over, then he wraps a hand around Brendon's waist, drawing him to his feet and into the bedroom.

He fucks Brendon like a lover, keeping his grip light to avoid leaving bruises and paying attention to Brendon's pleasure before his own. It's a reward, he tells himself as Brendon comes with an agonizingly sweet cry. Brendon saved the band today, and this is Spencer's way of telling him he did well. It's like giving a dog a treat when it rolls over.

Except that when Brendon opens his eyes and says "Thank you" with a smile, as he should when he's given a treat for a trick, Spencer is suddenly irrationally angry at him for ruining the illusion that he's there because he chooses to be.

"Get on the floor," Spencer commands. Brendon goes without question or surprise, like he was expecting it, and that makes it even worse.

***

They're three days into recording with Brendon and forty minutes into a battle to the death over whether a certain guitar part is a good idea or not (Ryan wants to keep it, Spencer thinks the bridge works better without it) when Brendon hesitantly pipes up, "How about a trumpet instead?"

Ryan shuts up, which is impressive for him at this stage of an argument. Then again, it's the first time Brendon has actually spoken in the studio. They're all pretty shocked.

"There's one in the practice room," Brendon says. "I can play it. I think it would sound better for that bit than the guitar."

He can. It does.

So Brendon is a secret musical genius in general, not just a secret genius vocalist, and he also seems to have some magical superpower that makes Ryan discuss issues of arrangement like a sane person instead of like a spoiled three-year-old. Ryan takes to coming over to Spencer's apartment every evening to argue over the album with Brendon. The discussions are heated, like Ryan's discussions always are, but Brendon and Ryan always reach an agreement in the end and no one ever storms off in a rage. After two weeks, the album is ready to send off for mastering.

Pete tacks them on as a third opening act for some random tour that's coming through town, and all of a sudden they're living on top of each other in a van and performing for reasonably large crowds almost every night. The first show, Ryan mumbles into the mic in between songs, and the audience looks bored. The second show, Brendon takes the lead, and the crowd is _his._ It's amazing how much difference the energy makes to their show. After that, there's no question about who gets to be frontman.

During their sixth show, in Minneapolis, Brendon flails around so much that he accidentally hurls his microphone off the stage and has to share Ryan's. The crowd goes completely insane. Ryan leans in and presses their cheeks together, and the cheering gets even louder. Brendon stays there for the rest of the verse, even though there's a tech in front of the stage holding up his dropped mic. It's not until Ryan goes into his solo that Brendon steps away and turns to Spencer, making a "can you believe that?" face.

Spencer doesn't like it, but the audience does, and he knows where the band's priorities lie. So he doesn't say anything, and Brendon and Ryan get closer and closer each show, until they're practically hanging off each other the whole time.

Their CDs fly off the merch table as fast as they're shipped in. When they sign them after the shows, the fans always want autographs from Brendon and Ryan.

***

Brendon gives his first solo interview the morning of their last show on the tour, in Los Angeles. Pete is there, and tries to coach Brendon on interview technique beforehand until Spencer shoos him away. After a month of sharing a stage, he trusts Brendon's ability to play his audience.

The clip airs an hour after Brendon gets back from recording it, and they all watch on a tiny TV screen in the green room at the venue.

"You just joined the band recently, right?" asks the interviewer, a platinum blonde with bright red lipstick and a huge fake smile. "How are you getting along with your bandmates?"

"I've known Spencer longer than the rest of them," Brendon says, which is true, if barely. "I owe him a lot, he's the one who got me into all this. Brent's cool, we get along. Ryan is amazing." He flashes a wide smile. "He writes all the lyrics and most of the music. It's really great to be able to see some of that process and participate in it. We get talking about music and it just flows, I don't even remember who said what. A lot of the stuff on the album, I couldn't tell you whether it was my idea or his."

"Now, I know you mainly sing, but you also played a few instruments on your debut record," she says. "What's your musical background like?"

He drops his eyes, looking more like a slave than a lead singer, but it only lasts a moment before his face is bright and earnest again. "I've always loved music more than anything else, but I haven't always had the opportunity to play. I used to live with someone who had a lot of instruments, so I taught myself to play them in my spare time, but I wasn't really supposed to so I didn't have as much practice time as I would have liked. I listen to music whenever I get a chance, and I sing whenever I'm alone. That's about it, really, I just listen and sing along. I know the words to just about every top-40 song from the last ten years, because I listen to the radio so much."

Spencer, watching the clip, looks over at Brendon, who is studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. He's never thought about where Brendon picked up his musical abilities, but now that he considers it, playing the trumpet is a sort of random thing for a sex slave to be able to do.

"That's amazing!" gushes the interviewer. "So you're completely self-taught, no lessons at all?"

On the screen, Brendon shakes his head. "I've never been able to take lessons," he says. "I didn't have a lot of money growing up."

"Well, that's changing right now, isn't it?" she says cheerfully. "Word is spreading about Panic! At The Disco, and your album is selling well."

Brendon isn't actually getting any money at all. As Spencer's property, he's not entitled to property of his own. But he covers well, and she doesn't notice his hesitation. She asks about how the tour has been going, and Brendon talks about road-tripping across the country in a van and never getting enough sleep. He sounds sure of himself, not the magnified sort of confidence he projects onstage but a more relaxed ease Spencer has never seen, except when he's overheard Brendon with Ryan.

"Excellent," says Pete after the interview is over. He looks at Spencer. "Now that your boy is off rock-star duty, mind if I use him? I'll have him back for soundcheck."

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," Spencer says. "No blowjobs, though. He's gotta be able to sing."

Pete grins. "I can give him one, though, right?"

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "If you want to?"

"Awesome," Pete says and steers Brendon out of the room.

Spencer picks up his laptop and goes back to obsessively googling himself. He realizes after a few minutes that Ryan is staring at him. "What?" he says.

"You should be nicer to him," says Ryan.

Spencer has no idea what he's talking about. He looks around. Brent is gone, and they're alone together.

"Brendon," says Ryan. He's practically glaring. "Don't act like he doesn't deserve a fucking blowjob. Like you're better than him."

"What?" Spencer doesn't even understand what he's saying. "I don't care if Pete wants to give him a blowjob. What do you mean, acting like I'm better than him? He's a slave."

"He's a fucking rock star," Ryan says.

"Jesus, Ryan," says Spencer. "A few weeks ago you were complaining that Pete didn't buy you a boytoy of your own."

"I didn't know him then." Ryan runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "Just... the rest of the world thinks he's a person, you know? Maybe you should try treating him like one."

***

After the show, Pete springs for separate hotel rooms for Spencer and Ryan and Brent. They're flying home the next day for three weeks, then he's got another tour lined up for them, a planned one this time with their name on the PR materials. It's overwhelming, but exhilarating at the same time.

When they get to the hotel room, Brendon strips and kneels. They haven't had much time alone on tour, so Spencer's gotten out of the habit of expecting this. He watches Brendon for a moment, thinking, then he takes off his clothes too. "Did Pete really blow you?" he asks. He sits cross-legged on one of the room's two beds and pats the mattress next to him.

Brendon climbs up on the bed, mirroring Spencer's posture. "Yes."

"Why?"

Brendon shrugs. "I think he wanted to make me squirm. Some people like doing that. It makes them feel like they have power over my mind, not just my body."

He's talking normally, like he did on TV, like he does to Ryan. Spencer wants him to keep talking like that. He wants Brendon to feel comfortable around him.

"Pete's a little bit of an insecure control freak like that," Spencer says. "Did it work?"

"No," Brendon says. "I faked it. Please don't tell him that."

Spencer wasn't actually expecting that kind of honesty. Huh. "Was it true, what you said in that interview about teaching yourself music?"

Brendon blinks at the change of subject. "Yeah," he says. "Not the whole truth, obviously. I got the crap beaten out of me every time he caught me touching the instruments. But I kept doing it. I couldn't stop myself. It's music. I need it."

"Is that where you learned all the..." Spencer waves his hand toward their naked bodies. "The sex stuff. The massage, the deep-throating, that elbow thing. Did he teach you?"

"I guess," says Brendon. "The deep-throating, yeah, you could say he taught me that. It was learn or choke to death." He's not smiling, not at all. "No one ever handed me a syllabus. I'm good at sex because I've had a lot of practice."

Spencer draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them. "What would make you squirm?" he whispers. "Pete couldn't make you lose control. What could?"

Brendon looks at him searchingly, like he's trying to figure out what Spencer's really asking. Finally, he says quietly, "I think Ryan could."

Spencer's head jerks up. He doesn't mind Pete fucking Brendon, fucking is what Brendon is for, but Ryan is a different story. Ryan gets Brendon onstage, and when they're writing, and when obnoxious blondes ask how Brendon feels about his bandmates. He doesn't get this. "You're not allowed to have sex with Ryan," he says sharply.

Brendon flinches. "I know. I'm sorry." He bows his head, like he did that first day, like he thinks he's going to be punished.

It hurts a little. "I wouldn't do that to you," Spencer says softly. "That guy who beat you up for playing his instruments. I wouldn't do that."

"Thank you," murmurs Brendon, and it's so far from what Spencer wants him to say that he nearly laughs.

***

They've been home for a few days when Pete casually mentions to Spencer that Panic! has been getting a lot of fan mail. He's on speaker while Spencer loads the dishwasher, and Brendon overhears and gives the phone a startled glance.

"What?" asks Spencer, who has learned by now that Brendon doesn't often speak unless he's spoken to.

"Where does it go?" asks Brendon.

"What, the fan mail?" says Pete. "We have someone to deal with it for all the bands on the label."

Brendon fidgets. "Um," he says, "could I have it? I'd like to write back. If that's okay."

"Spencer?"

"Sure, whatever," says Spencer, not really paying attention.

The box arrives two days later. It contains hundreds of letters and a note saying future mail will be forwarded to Spencer's address. Spencer stares at the pile. He's going to have to get someone to bring in the mail while they're gone on tour, otherwise his mailbox will explode.

Brendon sets up camp at the coffee table with a green gel pen and a white legal pad and stays there every second Spencer doesn't tell him to be somewhere else. He writes real letters, not just one-line notes. Sometimes he draws little sketches of cartoon animals in the margins. The postage is going to be expensive, but Spencer silently keeps a healthy supply of stamps on hand for him. If Brendon can't have any royalties from their album, the album that's only worth listening to because of him, at least he can have this.

It's late at night, almost two in the morning, when Spencer finds Brendon crying over one of the letters. "Brendon?" he says. "What's wrong?"

Brendon wipes his eyes furiously. "I'm sorry, I thought you were asleep," he says. He tries to toss the letter back into the box casually.

Spencer frowns. "Go to bed," he says. Brendon pinches his lips together obstinately, but obeys.

There's no return address on the envelope he was clutching. The reason for this becomes apparent when Spencer reads the letter: it's from a slave. It's short and messy, just a quick note saying that their music has helped her through a hard time. It ends abruptly, without a signature.

Spencer leaves the letter on the table. The bedroom is dark, but he doesn't turn on the light. He feels through the air until he finds Brendon and sits down on the floor next to him. He reaches out to stroke Brendon's cheek. It's still wet.

"I can't write back," Brendon says, his voice hoarse. "I can't tell her. I want to tell her. I want her to know that if it wasn't for you, if you and Ryan hadn't..."

He breaks off. Spencer trails his fingers down Brendon's face and finds him biting his lip. "You really love him, don't you, Brendon?" he says.

Brendon is quiet for a long time. "I love belonging to you," he says finally, a little desperate. "I love the life you've given me."

Spencer closes his eyes. It doesn't change anything. The room is just as dark.

"If I could choose, it would be you," Brendon whispers.

"Don't thank me, okay?" Spencer says. "You can fuck him, you can, I don't know, live with him, just... do it because you want to, not because I'm letting you. It can't be on me, I can't deal with that."

But Brendon's lips fall open and he grasps Spencer's hand tightly, and it's the same fucking thing.

***

They go back on tour, this time as the sole opener for a band people have actually heard of, and it's intense as hell. The crowds are huge and people are starting to sing along to their lyrics, which makes Ryan just about glow. Brendon backs off a little onstage, but it's Pavlovian the way the cheers get louder as he and Ryan get closer. Spencer just keeps his head down and focuses on the beat.

It's almost a relief when he catches them kissing behind the bus. He already knew, but now he knows for sure. Now he can get over it.

He steps back a little, just enough so that Ryan is hidden by the corner of the bus, and he watches Brendon's face. His eyes are closed, and he looks almost--not quite, but almost--happy.


End file.
